Via my mobile phone, I placed a call to Fry, Gouldman and Fletcher; Manny Fry was a friend; furthermore, the company employed me on a regular basis. In a moment of telepathy, Lawrence Gouldman announced that he was about to call me; he had doubts about the shooting and asked if I could help. Naturally, I said, ‘yes’. I passed this information on to Sweets and he set the ball rolling. An hour later, I walked down a corridor on my way to interview V.J. Parks.
The interview room was grey and green: grey walls and skirting boards, green floor and notice board. The room contained a small, square table, which was grey with green legs, while the chairs offered a degree of contrast, being black with green legs. V.J. Parks sat on one of those chairs, his elbows resting on the desk, his head in his hands.
Sweets stood guard at the door while I eased myself on to a second chair. As I made myself comfortable, V.J. said, “You know what the V in my name stands for, don’t you...Vivian. That’s a girl’s name, innit; it’s a sissy’s name. That’s why I’m known as V.J. Parks. That’s why I took up boxing.”
“Like Johnny Cash and ‘A Boy Named Sue’,” I said.
“Huh?” V.J. glanced up. He frowned.
“A song, ‘A Boy Named Sue’.”
V.J. stared at the table, his head still resting in his hands; this was not the moment to discuss one of the greats of popular music, so instead I asked, “What happened, V.J.?”
“It’s all unravelling,” he moaned.
“Did you shoot him?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“But you were at the farmhouse, with a gun in your hand?”
A pause, then a reluctant nod. “Yeah.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I went there to confront Osborne. But if I was gonna do any damage, I’d use my fists, wouldn’t I?”
V.J. glanced up and stared at me. As he stared, he flexed his fingers and clenched his fists, created two weapons as potent as any handgun. His tee-shirt revealed bulging biceps and taut triceps; one blow from V.J. Parks would send the average man spinning; two blows would knock him out.
With that in mind, I asked, “Have you ever fired a gun, V.J.?”
“Never. I’ve never handled one before today.”
“Did you see anyone at the farmhouse?”
“Only Osborne and his missus. And Osborne had been shot by the time I got there.”
“Explain,” I said.
“The window door, the...”
“French window.”
“Was open and I just walked in and found Osborne on the canvas, so to speak, groaning and moaning.”
“Then what happened?” I asked.
“I saw the gun. I picked it up; I thought Osborne might lunge for it and use it on me.”
“And then?”
“His missus walked in and saw us, didn’t she. She screamed, I panicked, dropped the gun and ran.”
“And the police picked you up later.”
“Yeah. At the gym. I wasn’t hiding or anything. I mean, if I’d taken a pop at him, I’d be in hiding, wouldn’t I?”
I glanced at Sweets, to gauge his reaction, to see what he made of V.J. Parks’ tale. A fair man, Sweets looked on with interest; he wouldn’t throw the book at Parks, or fit him up, just to put the case to bed. Like me, Sweets had an insatiable desire for justice; some people in his department didn’t understand our relationship, our friendship, but maybe that desire for justice served as our greatest bond.
“You feel angry towards Osborne,” I said, stating the obvious, inviting a reaction.
Nervously, Parks glanced at Sweets, then at me. “Of course,” he said.
“What about your feelings for Vittoria?”
He leaned forward and stared at the table. A high, narrow window offered a shaft of light, which slanted across the table, across V.J.’s face, casting a long shadow. The shadow stretched to the door, to Sweets’ feet, covering his brown shoes. V.J. shook his head and disturbed the shadow. In a halting voice he said, “I’m not sure.”
“Why aren’t you sure?”
He looked up, gazed into my eyes, then looked away again. “She’s been with another man, hasn’t she.”
“He raped her,” I said.
“Yeah, I know, but...” V.J. shrugged. He rolled his shoulders and his muscles bulged under the light fabric of his tee-shirt. Understandably, he looked tense, primed, ready to jump up at any moment, ready to burst into violent action. He sighed and said, “It’s like she’s not mine anymore.”
“She needs you,” I said. “This is no time to abandon her.”
“I’m not abandoning her,” V.J. insisted. “But...I don’t know...”
I glanced at Sweets. From his position beside the door, he looked on, with intent. He folded his arms across his chest, leaned against the wall, offered a pose of nonchalant indifference. However, I knew from personal experience that Sweets was filing away every word, every gesture. He liked to play the fool, sometimes looked like a fool, but his mind was as sharp as a razor.
“Get me out of here,” V.J. pleaded, offering a cry of desperation, “I hate feeling cooped up.”
“I’ll get you out,” I said. “But it might take a little time.”
I paused, to gather my thoughts, to consider how I could keep my promise. Then, from the corridor, the sound of footsteps echoing, followed by a drunken yowl and a minor scuffle. As the groans and protests faded away, disappeared into a distant room, I asked, “Why did Osborne pick on Vittoria?”
“What do you mean?” V.J. frowned.
“He raped her for a reason, beyond lust.”
V.J. glanced at Sweets. He stared at the wall. He shuffled in his chair, his face troubled, burdened, distressed. “I don’t know,” he said, his tone wary, defensive.
“You want to get out of here?” I asked, my tone edgy, impatient. “You want me to help you?”
V.J. swallowed. He nodded.
“Well then...”
“Osborne’s an animal,” V.J. said. “His type ain’t human.”
“Why did he rape Vittoria?”
V.J. swallowed again. His Adam’s apple bobbed in uncomfortable fashion. He grimaced, groaned, as though he’d ingested a dozen razorblades. A film of perspiration gathered on his brow, on the palms of his hands. He mopped his brow, wiped his hands on his tee-shirt then continued, “Osborne wanted me to take a dive, to throw my next fight.”
“Why?” I asked.
“He has contacts in Asia; he’s into sports betting, match fixing. With him around, no sport is clean.”
“And you refused to take a dive?”
“I’m clean,” V.J. insisted. “Every fight I’ve been involved in has been above board.” He stood and with his face glowing red, he thumbed the table, pummelled the smooth surface with the palm of his left hand. “This is my career; I want that title.”
My glance urged caution, so V.J. sat again, holding his head in his hands.
“I guess he raped Vittoria to teach me a lesson,” V.J. said in a small, sad voice.
“So you feel guilty about the rape.”
“I don’t know what to think.” V.J. shook his head as though to clear it. He pinched the bridge of his nose, stemming tears. “I don’t know what to feel anymore.”
I glanced at Sweets. V.J.’s statement had taken this beyond rape, beyond attempted murder. Now, we’d added an international element, opened a can of worms, worms that slithered under the name of match fixing. Needless to say, all this was beyond my control, my resources. Moreover, to judge from Sweets’ perplexed expression, he’d have to call in the cavalry as well.
Meanwhile, V.J. gazed longingly at the door, at the prospect of freedom. “Get me out of here,” he pleaded.
I narrowed my eyes in determined fashion, reached across the table and placed a hand on his arm. I reflected: Vittoria required long-term counselling, that was understandable, but V.J. was a victim too and in need of our help.